they don't speak for us.

i don't need to leave home as i get my kicks on channels.

cruxifiction's too good for this lot.

off the road, a few milles ahead, after the gold rush, as my head tries to reach the surface to breathe, i can't. it's the way you ignore me, you see through me and the clouds i use as fondations. i write for the ones i'll never meet as they are the only ones i do stand a chance for. i'm better off the outter space with dreams i can't afford.

spend hours waiting for incomning data to take action forward my schedule, but they live in a parallel universe i can't recall nor reach. futher harm remains under a non disclosure agreement but names were given somewhere else. it feels like the end everyday all over again, makes me want to stay in bed. The blur thing is just a far sight.

i record the score and retrack the table. it's all about concentration and the way you have to accept your weakness, to anticipate your errors. i should keep more than an eye on the log. it's spans all over the block. there's a stream of data you have to cope with and blue screen are coming at you. surrender is the punch line before control is taken.

outside it's another story. they dive for pearls and work for money. experts they are, masters they should be. the comptemplation of numbers is the root of this thread, the missing link, to redefine too much, not the same scale, walk away too fast, too soon. it's the plot and the way it must be like hell to lust, cruxifiction of dumb odd numbers.

steal each other, the frame, the scream. i've taken off, your ground is erased from my papers, i preserve trees, it's all about rays and bits. i never leave late at nights, i spy the network, hunt for clues of another life, inside, a fate of slave, a living paradygm, anxious war of nerves, we need cotton, we want rice, we don't care for your jesus.

it's life sunday but you don't have to wake up.

leaders of the new school have long switched to the other side.

the empire free style is neutral, they ask for colours.